Grace
by Patmoose
Summary: A girl named Grace loves playing with her toys. The toys come to life when she's not around, her grandmother tells her. "How do you know?" the little girl asks. "I know," says her grandmother. "But I don't know why you don't."


Once upon a time there was a little girl named Grace. She lived with her grandmother in a big old house up on a hill. Grandmother was kind, gentle, and never raised her voice, but there were rules that Grace knew not to break. For one thing she couldn't go outside. It was because she was allergic to the sun, among other things. The greenhouse was alright because it had a special tint that kept her safe. The attic and basement were off-limits too, the former because of dust and the latter because of mildew.

Another rule was that when Grandmother had her bridge club over on Saturdays, Grace had to stay in her room, because other people might bring in an illness. She didn't begrudge Grandmother her little free time, when she spent her life protecting Grace from her many allergies and poor immune system.

Grace had no mummy or daddy, nor did she have a grandfather. She knew that when Grandmother was little, she'd had a twin, but Grace had never known her. Grace had asked about them once, but Grandmother got so sad, and Grace never asked again. She much preferred Grandmother happy, baking cookies, gardening in the greenhouse, and tidying up with music playing on the gramophone.

A hobby that Grace shared with Grandmother was photography. They took pictures of each other, or both together, and new flowers in the greenhouse. They developed them together too, in the little dark room under the stairs. They did art together too, though Grandmother sculpted and Grace drew. Grace was quite an artist; Grandmother said her pictures almost looked like real life.

What Grace liked most, though, was playing with her toys. She always took good care of them, for they were her only friends, other than Grandmother. There were many dolls with China faces and big dresses, soft puppies and kittens, and a porcelain figure of Little Bo Peep that sat on her bedside table. She had a big dollhouse that looked like their house, and little dolls that looked like Grandmother and Grace. Grace thought it was funny that in the dollhouse room that mirrored her own room, there was a tiny dollhouse too, and two little dolls made of wood that belonged to the Grace doll. She could even make out her own red hair, and a cardigan of Grandmother's favorite color, lilac.

Grace's favorite bedtime stories were the ones Grandmother made up about her toys. When Grace wasn't in her room, they had all sorts of adventures! She just wished she could join them.

"Grandmother?"

"Yes, my dear?"

"How do you know that they can move and talk? They never do it around me."

"I just know." A puzzled, vague look came over Grandmother's face then, and Grace recognized it as the face she had when she forgot something important, like breakfast or, even more worryingly, Grace's name. These moments of forgetfulness were happening more regularly lately. "But I don't know why you don't."

This was a very odd thing for Grandmother to say, but then the story continued, and this one was about pirates. Grace couldn't resist those ones, and she forgot about the weird thing Grandmother said.

Some time later, however, Grace remembered. One evening, as Grace was getting ready for bed, she heard a crash from downstairs. She hurried down and discovered that Grandmother was on the floor, a broken cup beside her. She was breathing, but she wasn't moving and she was asleep, and there was blood on her head. Grace got very scared. For a moment she didn't know what to do, but then she remembered that a book she had said that if someone was hurt or sick, she should call three numbers on the phone to get help.

However, the only phone in the house was in the basement, where Grace shouldn't go. She couldn't go to a neighbor. They were too far away, and Grace would get sick. She rocked side to side, torn between the risk of the basement and the risk of outside. Finally she decided on the basement, not because it was the lesser of two evils, but because outside was terrifying. She knew without a doubt that she couldn't go that far on her own.

She got the key to the basement from Grandmother's pocket and went to the door beside the hutch, unlocking it. It was dark down there, darker than night, and cold. A look back at Grandmother made her brave; they were all the other had. She creeped down the stairs, leaving the door open for a little light.

The basement was a musty room, filled with strange piles of things under sheets. The light from the kitchen fell in a strip and lit the patch of wall opposite the stairs, revealing the old little phone on the wall. Grace ran to it and picked up the receiver. She'd never used a phone before, but the book had pictures. She pushed the buttons for the numbers and waited.

When someone answered, Grace couldn't say anything. She felt frozen and helpless. The lady's voice on the other end kept trying to get a response, and Grace felt like her words were trapped in her throat. The longer she couldn't speak, the more scared she got. She was sure that if she didn't say anything they would hang up and then Grandmother would die and Grace would be alone forever.

She was so relieved when, instead of hanging up, the lady said they were sending help anyways. They knew her address and everything! Grace left the phone hanging on its cord and ran back up the stairs. She sat on the floor and held Grandmother's hand, so scared of losing her that she couldn't breathe. Time lost meaning, and she only had her fear as a companion. She couldn't even blink.

Eventually, there was a knock at the door. She couldn't feel her legs anymore, so she didn't answer it. Lights were shined in windows, and when the beam came in the kitchen window, it fell across Grandmother's face. Then it disappeared. Soon there were flashing lights outside. Two people in jackets came inside with a small bed on wheels. They looked at Grace for a moment, and one even poked her, before they started helping Grandmother. Grace didn't move. She couldn't. The only sentence she understood from them was, "What a weird doll." and "Just a fall and a bump on the head. She'll live."

They strapped Grandmother to the wheeled bed and took her away. Two men in hats with little boxes on their shoulders that made noise looked in all the rooms.

"That's odd. The phone's just off the hook down there," they said, and, "I heard she lives alone, but there's a kid's room up there."

Also: "There's nothing but dolls like that in the basement." He gestured to Grace.

They left. The fear faded and drained from Grace like a cup of water tipped over. But oh! How mean those people were! She wasn't a doll! She was a little girl!

Grace got up and took a deep breath. Grandmother would live. She'd be back in a few days. The greater mystery was the dolls in the basement.

She took the time to find a light switch this time. When she went down the stairs, she found that it was decorated like a lovely sitting room, and the only thing out of place was a workbench along one wall. What had previously been sheet covered lumps had been revealed to be lots of little girls. Or dolls. They were curiously still. Grace frowned and poked one like the person in a jacket had poked her. The cheek of the doll was soft and squishy like a person, and the skin felt real but cold.

"Abigail?"

The sudden little girl voice made her spin so sharply she almost fell over. One of the dolls - girls? - was leaning forward a little and rubbing her eyes. She was cute and freckled, and had brown hair pulled back with a blue ribbon. Her eyes were blue, too, and she wore a dress of blue with a white pinafore over it. "Is that you, Abigail? Oh, no, you're Grace!"

"How do you know my name?" Grace asked, backing away a step. The voice was vaguely familiar, though.

The little girl brightened. "Stop joking, Grace. It's me, Beatrice!"

"Grace?" said another sleepy voice, and the girl she had poked yawned. That one was shorter than the others, and had long black hair in a braid. Her eyes were bottle green, and she wore a dusty pink dress. "How long has it been?"

"I don't know any of you!" Grace cried, backing away. The others were waking up, too. Beatrice got to her feet slowly.

"It's alright, Grace. You must have forgotten, that's all. We used to play together all the time. This is Camille," she gestured to the girl with the black braid. "That's Francine, Elspeth, Maisie, and Willa."

She pointed in turn to a tall blonde with grey eyes, a plump brunette with pretty brown eyes and glasses, another red-head like Grace, though her hair was curly and her eyes were hazel, and a thin girl with wispy white-blond hair in pigtails and eyes like ice. All of them smiled and started chattering about how much they missed Grace and the mysterious Abigail.

"I don't understand this at all!" Grace shouted when it became too much. The girl-dolls quieted. "I don't know you. I've never seen you before and I'm only six!"

Confused looks passed between the others. Suddenly Willa straightened and said, "Oh dear. She really doesn't remember. And she doesn't know what she is."

"Of course I know what I am. I'm a little girl!" she snapped, tired of this night entirely.

The girls gave her sad looks. Beatrice shook her head. "You aren't, Grace. You do look like one of them, but you're different. You're like us, a doll."

Maisie pursed her lips at Grace's disbelieving stare. "If you don't believe us, check the attic. That's where we used to place with Abigail."

Grace didn't want to even entertain this ridiculous idea, but a pearl of doubt lived in her mind, put there by the people that rescued Grandmother. How many winters and summers had passed since she could remember? Was it more than six? Just how many years had she been six years old? She thought and thought, and had to conclude that there had been many. She didn't remember being younger, she had always just been this old. Grandmother certainly had aged, her hair slowly going from red to entirely grey. She used to walk and move with confidence, but lately she'd rubbed her joints and creaked from place to place.

Grace ran up the stairs. She passed the open door to her room, and her toys moved to watch her go. She mounted the attic steps and climbed, quickly making it up. She unlocked the door and pushed it open, and her hand flew up to hit the switch.

Light flooded the room. It was indeed a playroom, with a long table with six pretty chairs around it and a little play tea set on it. There was a small bookshelf against the far wall, topped with a lamp and a vase that had once held flowers. There was a picture in a frame of a man and two little girls that looked identical - to each other and Grace herself.

She heard footsteps behind her. The doll girls were crowded in the doorway, watching her with obvious concern.

"Who are these people?" she asked, holding out the black and white photo in its tarnished frame.

Beatrice took and smiled at it. "That's Mr. Blake, and Abigail and the first Grace, his daughters."

The doll girls moved into the room. Elspeth and Willa started pulling sheets off furniture, revealing a bed, a couch, and a toy chest. Beatrice went to the bookshelf and pulled out a photo album, like the ones Grace and Grandmother put together. It was very old, though, and the photos inside were brittle.

"I think we've been asleep a long time," Camille whispered, looking at them.

The photos showed the man and a woman in a white dress. Grace assumed that they were wedding photos. "They look happy."

"We don't have reason to think they weren't," Beatrice said. "Mrs. Blake died bringing the twins into the world."

She turned pages of the happy couple, Mrs. Blake getting more pregnant as they went, and then suddenly she disappeared, and there was a solemn, sad-looking Mr. Blake with two baby girls.

"Abigail and Grace," it read.

They turned pages and the little girls grew. Soon they looked very much like Grace when she looked in a mirror. She frowned. "I still don't understand. I don't remember this."

"Keep looking."

Beatrice turned the page and suddenly she was shown in a picture with the twins, though she sat stiffly like a doll, while the others were lifelike. At the same time, though, one of the twins started to look sickly. The last picture was the sick twin sleeping. Beatrice closed it and put it on the table, then got out another one.

Now there was just one twin, and she was sad. Mr. Blake barely appeared. Grace looked up at Beatrice. "What happened?"

The doll girls looked sad, and Beatrice looked solemn. "The first Grace died. That's Abigail. I was the only one that knew both twins. Mr. Blake made me. He's very good at it, as you can see."

One by one the other doll girls appeared in the pictures, but Abigail still looked sad. "Mr. Blake didn't want her to be sad, so he kept making us, but she didn't cheer up until we started talking back to her. Normally toys don't talk to children, or move when they're around. It's the rules. But we were so sad and so worried about her! We had to break the rules, or we feared she'd drown herself in the river. She'd told us that's what she wanted to do. When we started talking to her, she didn't talk about the river anymore. She smiled and even laughed again." Beatrice was wringing her hands.

"That's when Abigail asked Mr. Blake for a Grace doll," Maisie murmured.

"He wouldn't do it at first, but she begged and cried so much," Willa said, turning the page. Abigail sat with Grace again, though the latter looked like a doll. "Fortunately, somehow, you were enough like the real Grace that Abigail was very happy. Or at least, once we got you to talk, too."

Francine finally spoke for the first time, "Mr. Blake suspected us, or ghosts, perhaps. We're not sure. But he got scared of us. After a few years Abigail went off to boarding school, and he locked us in her room at first. But we were too active, and too heavy. Lots of toys never bother parents, but we're pretty obvious. So he locked us in the basement."

Elspeth picked up the story. "Abigail would bring us out on the holidays she was home. Even when she was a teenager. And she'd always get you first. She tried to convince Mr. Blake to age you up, too, but he wouldn't do it."

The pictures reflected this story. Mr. Blake was no longer to be found, and the dolls got more and more lifelike, especially Grace.

"What happened after that?" Grace looked up from the last picture in the book, which showed Abigail as an almost adult with Grace in her lap.

"That." Beatrice turned to look at all the other albums on the shelf. There were a lot. "We're still in some of them. Mr. Blake died when Abigail was nineteen. She got the house and the money. She never worked that we saw. She spent more and more time with you, and forgot us sometimes. You started calling her mum. And then one day she put us in the basement and covered us with sheets. That's the last thing we remember."

They pulled out more albums. They were all full of an adult Abigail and doll Grace, and flowers. The older albums showed Abigail taking Grace outside, but those eventually and suddenly vanished. Each of these albums seemed to cover only a year. Abigail grew older and older. Grace was resigned when she started to recognize Abigail as Grandmother.

"She was mum, and then she was Grandmother. Is. I hope." Grace told the others about the fall, and the strangers. For a while after they were quiet.

Grace was starting to remember things. Abigail had never married or had children. Her bridge club now had probably been the gardening club so long ago. Other than that, she'd been happy only with Grace. Her twin, her daughter, her granddaughter.

"What should we do, Grace?" whispered Camille shyly.

Grace thought about several things they could do, but couldn't pick one. "I guess we wait until she comes back. If she comes back," she finally said, sadness swamping her.

Once upon a time there was a little girl named Grace. Grace had no mummy or daddy, nor did she have a grandfather. She knew that when Grandmother was little, she'd had a twin, but Grace had never known her.


End file.
